Assassinanny (Alt Ending)
by Verna-S
Summary: Written for a LiveJournal challenge back in 2009. Prompt: "Brock/Rusty. With Molotov either finding out about their relationship or catching them [being affectionate.]" Three chapters; complete. Cleaned up and re-posted here for posterity.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:**

I am not the true copyright holder of the characters depicted below. No profit made from this, none intended.

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**Author's Notes:**

Originally posted back in 2009 in response to a writing challenge on LiveJournal. Takes place after Assassinanny 911 (Season 2, episode 3.)

I never realized how short these chapters were, or how weird it was to try and replicate a Russian accent in narrative form. Sorry if it seems weird. I do realize that conjunctions generally join two parts of a sentence. One reader on LiveJournal said that it sounded like her, but I'm still not sure if it came across right.

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**Assassinanny Alternate Ending (Part 1)**

For the most part, Molotov did not like or respect American people or their soldiers. She found them docile, overly dependent on fancy gadgets, and undertrained-like children with shiny new toys instead of grown adults with firm understanding of how to defend themselves. It was an obvious symptom of a diseased nation so fat and bloated with capitalist greed and consumerism that it would be decades before anyone realized it had been slowly dying from lack of moral solidarity or values, again much like a child fed on nothing but Coca-Cola and television while its body and mind continued to starve.

It was not so in old country. In old country, men were men. In KGB, women and children were also men. There was no whining or weeping or lying like a lump by your own personal pool sipping sugary drinks brought to you on a tray. There was no waiting around for someone to pick up your mess or do your laundry, cook you dinner or put your suspiciously juvenile teenagers to bed.

In old country, these Ventures would be torn apart. They represented the very worst of the most useless vestiges of old system of aristocracy. They did nothing, they contributed nothing. They simply took up money, resources, and arable land that could be put to much better use growing food for the whopping percentage of world population that went for days with nothing to eat. As children the boys Hank and Dean could be excused some of their greater faults as they lacked even the access to public education which would give them the ability to grow intellectually beyond the pathetically outdated McCarthy-era mentality imposed on them by their negligent father. For Doctor Venture, however, there was no excuse. The man was a pimple on the face of society; a pallid-skinned, soft-palmed member of the bourgeois whose lecherous unwanted advances were only mitigated by the sheer impotence he displayed as a masculine specimen compounded by the lack of physical threat he imposed on anyone, much less on a woman trained to break every bone in the human body from the age of nine years old. How this effeminate creature whose only function in life (as far as she could tell) was to waste valuable OSI resources and hemorrhage money could even /dream/ of telling the magnificent Brock Sampson what to do, treating such a magnificent specimen of physical fitness and ruthless efficiency as a common nanny or wet nurse offended every sensibility Molotov had.

And yet, for some reason, Samson chose to remain with these imbeciles in this boring, dead-end job when he could be using his God-like skills to crush his enemies and force entire nations to work together to fix the many things wrong with this country. A man as swift and competent in the art of killing as Samson was could end wars before they began and force government bodies to be polite with one another, or else. He could bodyguard any of the world's leaders or, if necessary, take them out. A man with such power did not belong in a mostly closed-off and abandoned factory compound outside a trailer park budgeting for one macaroni and cheese dinner a week and making head lice checks, with only an occasional group of misguided rubber-masked morons showing up from time to time to give him any chance to exercise his art-it was a mockery of Samson's true calling.

To that end, Molotov headed back to the compound to give Samson a piece of her mind. Go Team Venture, indeed. If he were actually competent in any way, she would accuse the American Doctor of having her Samson brainwashed. Instead she would have to hope that now he had finally come to his senses and taken some time off to go on a /real/ mission, maybe he would be having second thoughts. And if not, there were... other forms of persuasion at her disposal. She had a feeling her beloved would request a transfer if she told him where she kept the key to her belt.

He would have to fight to get it off her, of course, but that was to be expected. To patronize Brock Samson was an insult to his abilities, and that simply would not do.


	2. Chapter 2

"So tell me, big man, how was the mission that was /so important/ you needed to up and leave us with Miss Psycho for several days at a stretch?"

The audacity of the man! Molotov clenched her fists and held her tongue, watching. He was asking the right questions, but in the wrong order. What was so important about this family that her magnificent Samson would even consider coming back to this place?

"Top secret. Look, I know he collapsed but did Hank really wet himself?"

"Why yes, Mr. So-Grown-Up-That-He's-Started-Noticing-Girls-But-Not-Quite-Grown-Up-Enough-To-Sleep-Without-A-Nightlight-Installed-In-His-Learning-Bed had quite the little episode thanks to your hussy." In a darker tone, the weedy little man added, "I guess the boy's finally growing up. And developing an Oedipus complex too, certainly a feat without any mother figure to speak of. Until your girl came along, of course."

"For the last time, she's not one of my... she and I, we never..."

"Yeah, right. Well, I should let you know, she came on to me."

"What?"

"I was surprised as you were. One moment, I was minding my own business and then there she was, babbling something in that incomprehensible accent of hers! Something about 'making what belonged to her precious Samson hers?' I wasn't really paying attention, I mean usually a woman like /that/ going after a guy like /me/, in my experience there's a fifty-fifty chance she's about to turn homicidal and she'd already threatened to cut my balls off-"

"YOU AREN'T SERIOUS! There's just... no, there's just NO WAY!"

Doctor Venture started giggling. He covered his mouth with his hand (like a girl, Molotov thought) and slapped the table. "Oh man, you really /haven't/ slept with her. A beautiful woman you haven't slept with? God, you must really be in love." The last was said with almost a wistful sense of appreciation.

"Look... I'm sorry if she wasn't exactly what you're used to-"

"She tried to make us combat ready under some delusion that she could whisk you away, Brock."

"Uh, what?"

"I mean, okay, so she killed a handful of guys and dealt with the annual ghost infestation and the giant snake, and she gave Hank mouth-to-mouth when he stupidly drowned himself in the pool, so, yes, you were right, she was capable of doing the job, fine, whatever. But if you're planning on leaving again, I'm sure you'd realize I have the right to know, because I am /not/ having that trigger-happy harpy chase me up and down my own runway with live ammo just because she believes you aren't happy here."

"I... I, uh..."

Doctor Venture shrugged. He crossed over to the fridge and took out the milk, sniffed it, made an 'eughh' noise, and poured himself some zero-calorie no-name orange drink instead. The sight of the Doctor's pale Adam's apple bobbing up and down in that stringy throat made Molotov gag. She suppressed the urge to snap it like a twig. "Which is stupid, because I'm sure everyone knows that if you really wanted to, you could be off on missions all the time. The way I see it, whatever you did or whoever you pissed off to get yourself sent here twenty years ago, the fact that the OSI still sees you as the /only man/ for certain jobs goes to show that they're willing to put that all behind them-they're probably kicking themselves over doing it in the first place. I mean, you're freaking Brock Samson, after all." He downed the drink with his back to Brock and was quiet for a moment. And then, all in a rush, "Idon'tdeserveyou."


	3. Chapter 3

"Doc-"

The silence was awkward. Molotov considered bursting in there and screaming something, anything-just to break the tension. But now she was almost wishing she hadn't come back. She did not want to sympathize with the Doctor, but she was finding it difficult not to. She was also starting to feel like a trespasser spying on two members of a family during a very private moment. (Which obviously was not something she'd never done before, but it was Samson's family this time, and seeing him in a civilian situation such as this-she did not like it.)

Brock was the first one to speak. "Pour me one of those? And sit down."

The Doctor did these things silently. Molotov was surprised the man knew how to shut up. She'd never seen him this quiet before and was surprised he even had the capacity.

"You want to know about the mission I went on?" A nod. "Fine. I was sent after someone else from the Bureau-from my old department, actually. Hunter."

Molotov covered her mouth. The cross-dressing one? He was a bit of an eccentric, but every bit as ruthless (and, she had thought, patriotic) as Samson in his own way. Certainly her Samson had idolized him. To be sent after one's beloved comrade was a sorrow not to be taken lightly.

"He'd been a mentor to me, kind of like a father even. Ended up coming across him on an operating table. Had to get the surgeon out of the way..." Brock trailed off. "And... well, you know." He took a long swig of his juice, downing it in one gulp and then wiping his mouth on the back of his arm. He avoided the Doctor's eyes. "Can't tell you the rest. Shouldn'ta even told you this much."

"Oh, Brock..." Venture reached his hand for Samson's shoulder, but didn't go so far as to touch it.

"As for the rest, I like it here. This is... this isn't normal, but it's about as close to normal as I can stand. And I'm sorry about Mol. It was short notice and I wanted to make sure I was leaving you with the best, because you're pretty much the only family I got."

"Brock, I..."

"It's nothing, it's, it's stupid. I'll see you in the morning, I'm going to bed."

"Nothing, my ass! Come back here. I said... fine, I'm coming to you." The Doctor's voice got quieter as he followed Samson out of the kitchen. Molotov did not move from her hiding place, but cupped her hand to the wall in order to hear.

"Doc, what is this?"

"I'm giving you a hug, you big goof. Go ahead and beat the crap out of me if you want. After the attack of the killer mail-order broad, I think I'm pretty desensitized."

Samson choked back what could have been a laugh. It was difficult to tell. "Hunter..." His voice sounded oddly wet.

"Shhh, it's okay. It's all right. Just let it all out, Brock. I'm right here." And then, in a surprised tone, "Wait. Is now really the best- should we really be-" And then in a squeakier one, "be a lamb and, a little to the left? Oh, dear sweet Jesus, /yes./" And then, "Oh, Fuck. Wait. The boys-"

"They'll sleep through it."

Unable to believe her ears, Molotov turned and left.

Temporary insanity brought on by grief due to loss of a close comrade was no laughing matter. For this reason alone did she stay her hand. In any other circumstances, she would have killed them both. This left her with two objectives. Samson would need to be brought to his senses, that much was clear. There was something about this Hunter situation that did not sit well. Something about the way Samson had neglected to finish his story in the kitchen just now. She had a feeling it would bear some looking into, and she knew just the girls to do it.


End file.
